


The Winter is Past

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Gen, Hell, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: From @luciferprompts, Lucifer dislikes children because once, a millennia ago, he lost his own young child due to a sickness. He never truly moved on, the memories still too painful for him to bear. One night Chloe gets angry with Lucifer for declining to babysit Trixie, and he breaks down and tells her the truth. Maybe she can help him find the closure he deserves.And for Lucifer Bingo: Wildcard (Devil May Cry)





	The Winter is Past

**Author's Note:**

> A thousands thanks to my lovely beta HiroMyStory. You are the only reason this ended up actually being coherent.

“Our usual babysitter is out of town and Maze is out-of-state. I know it’s last minute, but can’t you just—”

“No, Detective. I can’t.”

Lucifer was adamant. Chloe groaned in frustration. She’d known who he was for over a year, they’d been dating for a few months, and she’d really been expecting him to soften toward Trixie by now. She’d thought, several times, he’d been getting closer to accepting her hugs, accepting _her_ , but every time he’d pull farther away. “I… _fine_. I’ll ask Ella.”

“You do that.”

And he hung up the phone.

 

* * *

 

“Look, you don’t even have to _watch_ her. I just need you to pick her up.”

“It is quite impossible, Detective.”

Detective, _again_. He was even distancing himself from her now in his effort to avoid alone time with Trixie. Chloe nearly screamed but keeping her surroundings, the courthouse, in mind, managed to hold it in. Voice pitched low, she tried again. “ _Lucifer_ …”

“Find someone else.”

She hung up this time, biting her lip so hard it bled.

 

* * *

 

“Trixie adores you.”

Lucifer sighed but didn’t get up from the couch. So at least he wasn’t going to run. Yet. Chloe steeled herself. She’d found an evening with just them at her house and, despite knowing it would likely ruin their night… They _had_ to talk about this. “You can’t date someone with a kid and refuse to have anything to do with them.”

“Can’t I?” He raised an infuriating eyebrow.

She threw her hands up. “This isn’t some casual fling to me, Lucifer!”

“Nor to me.” His face went serious again.

“Ok,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering. “Then the answer is _no_ , you can’t.”

He shifted away from her, back against the arm of the couch. “I do not li—”

“It’s not enough to say you don’t like kids. I need… I… _Why_?”

“I have told you,” he said, clearly aiming for patient though it only came off as patronizing. “They are loud and sticky and—”

“That’s the reason?” she asked, tears pricking her eyes.

He hesitated almost imperceptible. “It’s… they’re… reasons.”

“But not _the_ reason.”

He remained silent.

“Goddammit Lucifer, just tell me!”

He flinched at his Father’s name, lip quivering. “I… I…”

At the sudden torment in his voice, the anger drained out of her. “Are you—?”

“ _Beatrice_ …” He didn’t even seem to have heard her. “Her eyes are… they look like…” His own eyes, suddenly wet, shut tightly. He opened his mouth and, voice thready but tone flat, began to speak.

 

* * *

 

The great plague, they called it.

In their millions they came, cursing the supposed causes of the disease—the old mainstays of sinners and foreigners and, as always, the Devil. Their faces were twisted in agony, as they unfailingly were, but none cried out, as they often did, pleading to be restored to life. No, they only wept, besieged by despair so great the infernal gates hardly inspired a gasp.

Lucifer frowned from the high tower of his palace at the twisting paths of Hell, swarming with the masses of the damned. “I have never seen the like,” he remarked mildly.

Mazikeen, approaching from behind, laughed. “A plague, my lord? They happen every other century.” She was grinning viciously as she joined him at the window. “Filthy, stinking creatures, humans.”

He hummed in assent, but his scowl only deepened. “But never so many, so quickly.” He watched as a cluster of souls were menaced by a nightmarish demon, their faces wan and expressionless. “And their desolation! I have never seen such hopelessness on this scale.”

He ought to be joining Mazikeen in her exultation at their torture, but there was a strange tugging in his chest that compelled him down into the mob. These souls were nearly devoid of light, but some still gleamed, however dully. Passing through the throng easily, he selected one, yanking it up to meet his gaze. “Human,” he barked. “Where do you hail from?” The man blinked at him dubiously until he managed to find a language he understood.

He sputtered, his native tongue stoking the flickering flame in his soul. “B-Barcelona… mi s-señor.”

“Ah, and what’s happened there?”

“The pestilence it… half the city is dead. Bodies burn in the streets.” He froze, a stricken expression overcoming his face. “ _My_ body, burning in the streets.” And he would say no more, trapped in his own despondency. If Lucifer wanted to know what was happening on Earth, he’d have to look for himself.

He extended his wings and phased through the dimensions, landing in warm Mediterranean waters. “Why do I always land in the water,” he grumbled, dragging himself up onto a ship in port, wings disappearing with a snap. It was abandoned, listing idly against the ropes, so he headed below deck to find clothing acceptable for this place, emerging in the late afternoon sun dressed as finely as he could manage. Not that, he was annoyed to see, anyone paid him any mind.

That irritating twinge near his heart refused to leave him and the heavy scents of vinegar and death only made the pain sharper. The streets were close to deserted, the ashen faces of the few who braved the open wrapped in linens, bundles of herbs tied under their noses. He made his way into the center of the city, its narrow twisting streets familiar amidst the strangeness. Something was drawing him ever forward and, as his eyes alit on a half-crumbled church, he grimaced.

No matter how long he’d spent absent his Father’s ruthless light, it never stopped calling to him. He was about to turn away when he saw the pit. It was crammed full with corpses, putrefying quietly under layers of cloth and lime. It was nothing compared to the worst things he’d seen and yet made him pause. This was no disorderly mass grave like the many he’d encountered; this dead flesh had been treated with more reverence than he understood, especially with the city in ruins and the signs of disease on their skin.

It was then that he heard the cry.

It was quiet, nearly lost in the tumult of a dying city—and he had heard many screams, fallen into dreamless sleep to their melodious ring—but this was… _young_. And hungry. More the bleat of an abandoned lamb than the screech of a tortured human. That hook in his heart tugged yet harder and, before he knew what he was doing, he was striding forward with a haste he never displayed.

There, wrapped in linen and concealed between a still standing wall and the tumbled remnants of another, lay a human offspring. It was absolutely miniscule, far smaller than any human Lucifer had ever seen. As he watched, its little eyes popped open, the darkness of his own eyes looking back at him. Its wail increased in intensity. He looked around; perhaps its parent had simple put it down for a moment, but there was no other living being in sight.

Sighing, he reached down and picked the thing up. At his touch it quieted, but the pained, yearning expression on its face remained. He sighed again, focusing on his irritation and not the warmth that he knew had nothing to do with the sun. “Well,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “I suppose small humans need to eat, then?” The creature glared at him, its nose wrinkling. He considered dumping it on some doorstep but, as the wind picked up, bringing with it the acrid smell of rot and burning bodies, he realized that wasn’t an option. Of course, there were orphanages, places far from here it would almost certainly be… He froze, looking down at the child; it had wrapped its slightly damp little hand around one of his fingers. Its own fingers were so small, _so_ fragile, _so_ …

“Fine,” he muttered bitterly, manifesting his wings, staring up at the sky. “ _Fine_. I hope you’re laughing up there.” There was no response as he flew out of the city, not that he’d been expecting one.

 

* * *

 

“You—?”

“Don’t interrupt, _please_. If I stop, I… I don’t think I have the courage to…”

She laid her hand on his knee. “Whatever you need.”

 

* * *

 

Goats.

He _hated_ goats.

And yet he couldn’t deny that they made excellent nursemaids, suckling the child and turning its wretched cries into happy little gurgles. It was almost… cute _,_ when content. Not that he would ever admit it. And this cave, well, it _did_ make a fairly adequate shelter, didn’t it? There was so much more light here than there ever was in Hell and it was _peaceful_ , even with the child’s shrieks of delight. Amenadiel had always found him before, but there weren’t any other humans for miles around; it might take him years to discover him _here_. It couldn’t hurt to stay a little longer, could it? Till the spawn was weened, at least. Till the pestilence ended.

A few years were nothing to him, after all.

 

* * *

 

The child grew with a rapidity Lucifer scarcely believed, one day finally eating the mushed apple he had prepared—before throwing a handful directly into his face, the fiendish little imp—and the next taking a hesitant step, babbling out a half-word as she fell back on her rump. That aching warmth that had taken up residence in his chest would throb painfully in these moments, but he would push down the smile and bite back the tears that threatened.

Until the Day.

He’d taken to herding the goats that lived outside their cave, keeping them away from the garden he cultivated. He was grazing them down in a small valley, where the grass was most verdant, when one tripped down a bluff, its leg breaking with an audible snap. He sat down Susana—for that was what he’d called her—to play with the wooden cow he’d carved for her as he stabilized the goat’s leg. But when he’d finished and turned around, she was gone.

“Susana?” he asked into the air, hearing his voice crack in a way it hadn’t since he’d fallen. “ _Susana!_ ” She’d stumbled her way down to the stream, swollen and swift from meltwater and, even as he watched, tottered forward toward the rushing water. His wings extended in a flash, cutting like blades through the air, startling the nearby goats, but he didn’t care, barely even noticed. She was falling and he knew what it was to fall, knew the fear, knew the…

Her little body was about to crest the freezing water and his mind went blank. Nothing remained but the rush of wind as he reached out—not close enough, not close enough, _not close enough_ —and caught her by the foot, stumbling to a halt on the other bank. And even if he could have stopped the tears as he righted her and cradled her head, soothing her shock and terror, he wouldn’t have, no longer willing to pretend apathy. Knowing for the first time that surely the warmth in his chest—which he understood now to be love—must be worth this pain. Nothing, not setting the stars aflame, not even his Father’s light, had ever burned this purely.

And the Devil let himself love, for he’d never truly had a choice.

 

* * *

 

The pestilence slowly subsided, but Lucifer remained afraid, for never had he loved something so precious as this child. Never had anyone looked at him with such faith.

They lived well on their mountainside, meeting only a few others who simply assumed that the poor goatherd had lost his wife, as so many had, to the plague. Susana had grown—though she was still half a child—as strong and fierce and obstinate as the Devil who cared for her.

They had travelled to a nearby village, as they often did, to trade for goods they couldn’t make themselves. But never had the small town been as teeming with people as it was that day. They visited a few shops, made their trades. Eventually, they were drawn to the square, where a great racket had gone up.

It was a street play—a common enough occurrence, with singers and dancers and jesters plying their trades. Susana tugged on his hand. “Can we watch?”

“Of course, love.”

They settled among the townspeople, but soon the festivities seemed to wane, though the crowd hadn’t diminished. A man came out wearing the vestments of a priest and dread crept up Lucifer’s spine. “Maybe we should leave.”

“Why?” she asked, with the deadly combination of pleading and stubbornness only children can possess. “I want to see!”

He assented reluctantly, ignoring the man as best he could—at least he didn’t speak for long. Instead, he raised his arms, announcing something that was washed away by the sudden clapping and stomping of the people around them. Out of the doors of the church came men with cheaply constructed wings tied to their backs and, in the center, a figure dressed all in red, chains around his wrists, wearing a grotesque mask.

They had to leave. They had to leave before—

“Lucifer,” one of the winged figures sneered at the man in red. “Slanderer, deceiver, evil one!”

The devil figure snickered. “Yes,” he proclaimed, with the confidence of a man who had just forgotten all of his lines. “I _am_ … evil!” He threw his arms wide and the chains, evidently _not_ real metal, tore in half. The crowd laughed. The man seemed to try to gather himself. “I am the—” But he tripped over his robes, landing flat on his face, driving the mob into even greater hysterics.

One of the angels sighed in exasperation and waved his hand, a clear signal as, from the other side of the square, emerged other masked figures, carrying torches, leaping at the members of the crowd, screeching and screaming. The forces of good and the forces of evil made mock battle, brandishing pitchforks and wooden swords as the fires rose higher. Finally, the winged men drove the demons away, seized the Satan figure, and dragged him to the top of the church tower.

And there, above the square, the priest reappeared. “Serpent, great destroyer,” he called. “Adversary of God, you will be bound in chains for a thousand years. Now, be cast into the pit!” The man dressed in red shrieked as he was thrown from the belfry, landing in a pile of hay.

When Lucifer came back to himself, eyes pricking painfully and face hot with shame, he found the spot next to him empty, and his humiliation was nothing to the terror that swept him.

“Susana!”

He sprinted through the crowd yelling her name and, when he still couldn’t find her, ran through the streets, ducking into alleyways, pushing down memories of rushing streams and endless falls. Eventually he found her at the edge of the village, face buried in her hands.

“Don’t cry, darling.” His voice broke.

She looked up at him. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re… _him_.”

He shut his eyes, sliding down the wall, nodding slowly. He still had hope, but… she’d _seen_ now. And once they saw they _always_ believed. She was clever and he’d never taken enough care to hide himself and now… He couldn’t watch her leave knowing he’d never see her again.

Her hand on his knee shocked his eyes open. She was frowning down at him.

“You’re not scary, they were just _mean_ ,” she said so matter-of-factly he could only stare at her, beyond astonished. She was shaking, but it wasn’t from fear. No, it was sadness and anger—sadness and anger for _him_ —and he wanted nothing more than to soothe her.

So he did, gathered her up in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go home.”

They returned to their little mountainside, settling in the grass, and he told her of creation, of the light and the beauty and the wonder. And as she chattered excitedly, eyes wide with curiosity, the flames of acceptance bloomed in his heart and he knew then that this was true grace.

_This_ , blazing through his soul, was joy.

And when night fell he carried her inside and told her the story of the lightbringer, who wove the stars into the tapestry of the sky, and of his brightest star, gleaming over all the valleys, that shone brighter still from the warmth of his love.

But even stars sometimes fall.

And, in the end, it wasn’t the great and terrible plague that felled her, but a common human illness no less deadly for its ordinariness.

 

* * *

 

“Was there nothing you could do?” Chloe didn’t want to cut in, but such was her sorrow the words slipped out without conscious thought.

Lucifer shook his head roughly, eyes still closed. “Antibiotics are the only…” He breathed in harshly. “Angels can heal, but disease is complex and I…

“I’ve never been any good at being an angel.”

 

* * *

 

“Don’t worry, darling,” he whispered, brushing the hair from Susana’s sweaty face. “Heaven is a paradise. You’ll be happy there. And your family, I… I’m sure your family…” But he didn’t lie, and he wouldn’t, not even to spare her.

“Will…” She coughed hard, the convulsion raising her off the bed. “Will _you_ be there?”

“Oh love, you wouldn’t want me there to—”

“ _Please_ ,” she wheezed. He wiped the blood from her mouth.

“I _can’t_.”

“Then…” She panted. “Can’t I go with you?”

He shook his head despondently. “You don’t deserve Hell.”

“Neither do you.”

Such was her obstinacy he couldn’t bring himself to argue, merely brought cooling cloths for her head and warming broth she could hardly keep down. When she slipped into a fragile sleep, restless from fever and troubled by dreams, he stood at the threshold of their little home, looking up at the glory of the Heavens. And, for the first time in a hundred millennia, the Devil prayed.

But no one answered.

And when the morning dawned and she was still, all her light stolen from her, her guardian angel knelt at her bedside, clung to her hand, and wept.

 

* * *

 

Chloe was crying.

She hadn’t noticed the tears come, but they wouldn’t stop any more than Lucifer could stop the words from leaving his mouth.

“Are you alright, love?”

She pried open the eyes she hadn’t realized had closed. His voice had been rough, but it was nothing to the devastation that played across his face. Her breath hitched and she stuttered out a weak exhalation. “But you prayed…” She said it softly, but her sadness was swiftly turning to outrage. “You _prayed_. They must have known what that cost you and they _still_ didn’t…?”

“Oh, no.” He laughed brokenly. “No, he came, my… _brother_. It was just too late.”

 

* * *

 

This… monastery, or… whatever the Hell it was… What had he been thinking about? Well, whatever it was, it was out of wine. And brandy. At least—he yanked another bottle out of a secret recess in the stone—he was pretty sure it was brandy. He blinked blearily at the bottle, shrugged, snapped the neck off of it, and drained the contents, falling sideways into a hard backed chair.

Hmm, maybe sherry.

The monks had fled several hours back, or days. It was difficult to say, but it was definitely sometime after the first writing desk had been thrown into the wall—though before he’d broken the refectory table in half.

He was at the height of drunkenness. It could only be downhill from there, so of course Amenadiel chose that moment to appear, dressed in all his celestial finery, staring haughtily down at him. “Had a good time, Luci?” he sneered. “Shirking your duty, corrupting the innocent?”

“Ohh… you know me,” he slurred, rising awkwardly to his feet. “All my works have bad ends.” He sobered enough to fix a clear eye on his brother. “Don’t worry. I’m ready to go back. I’ll not be any trouble,” he muttered, staring blankly at the flowers that had once adorned the splintered table and were now crushed underfoot, sparkling with shards of glass.

“What was so important that _you_ would pray, anyway?” Amenadiel asked distractedly, leaning down to pull a book off the ground, brushing debris from the cover. “I swear Raph was laughing so hard he nearly fell off his perch.”

Lucifer’s eyes threatened to flash with fire but he repressed it ruthlessly. “It was nothing, to you,” he replied coldly. “Just further proof you’re all exactly who I thought you were.”

He must not have hidden his pain well enough, because Amenadiel frowned and took hold of his arm, his righteous anger stifled under pity. “Are you—?”

He pulled away, rejecting the show of sympathy. “I can make my own way back.”

“Of course, brother.”

And he extended his wings, returning to Hell.

No one, not even Mazikeen, would dare ask where he had been, why he was dressed in stinking goatskins, beard and hair unshorn, or why, when faced with certain of the damned youths, he would disappear in a flash of feathers, alighting on the highest tower of his palace to look up at the dark, unchanging sky and imagine it held her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Chloe’s face was numb from the tears and the grief.

“Beatrice…” He shook his head, eyes finally opening. “When I look at her, I feel that…” His hand crept up to rest over his heart. “But, I can’t… I _can’t_.” He cleared his throat wetly. “If I… _lost…_ you, it would be like falling again. But it’s not…”

“…it’s not the same,” she finished for him.

He nodded. “And I’m afraid,” he nearly whispered.

She tightened her hand around his, sliding forward to lean against his side. He shuddered and she pressed her lips to his shoulder. “What are you afraid of?”

“I… I fear I have no choice.” She lifted her head to blink at him. He pressed his forehead against hers. “I thought if I stayed away from her, I wouldn’t…” His eyes closed again, tears leaking from the corners to slip down his cheeks and onto hers. “It’s already too late.”

But she was smiling, through his tears, even through her own. “Well,” she said, not quite managing nonchalance. “I guess we’re just going to have to make sure she’s safe, won’t we?”

“You don’t understand,” he forced out eventually.

“But I do,” she insisted, running a hand through his hair. “If anything happened to her… I don’t…

“But that’s the point,” she continued, voice stronger. “That’s what it is to love your child. To know you’d do _anything_ to keep them safe. And it’s ok, Lucifer. It’s _good_.”

“I… it doesn’t _feel_ …”

“I know. Believe me, I _know_. And I know that for… _hundreds_ of years, you didn’t heal. But you _can_ , Lucifer. You can love Trixie and it won’t tear you apart.

“But…”

She kissed him, then, short and chaste, but full of promise. “I believe in you.”

He swallowed nervously, but then he gave her a weak yet still sincere smile. “And I you, my love. And I you.”


End file.
